Rat Trap

The Prime Minister of India tossed the newsmagazine onto his desk, his expression grim. “This has to stop happening to us, Singal!”

Standing before him, Director of Indian intelligence Singal said nothing. He had been summoned to the PM’s office only ten minutes earlier. The official word was that the PM was breathing fire, and it seemed the report was correct.

The PM turned so that he was facing a map of the world. “Several weeks ago, your people located a known terrorist on the official watch-list hiding in Portugal. You inform your opposite number but the Portuguese say they cannot extradite him. Within days your agency locates another ‘most wanted’, this time in Chile, but they too say sorry. And now this: Sayyed Wassu, who’s # 1 on your List is actually captured by police in Yemen, and then, while we’re popping the bottles and breaking out the party-ware, they quietly put him on a plane to Pakistan.”

He sank back further into his seat. “You cannot even begin to imagine the kind of flak I am getting on this issue. The press is ridiculing the efforts of my government, and the public actually think we are nothing more than a group of ineffectual buffoons. The Opposition is baying for my blood, and demanding to know how we bungled up so badly.” He shook his head. “Your agency is making me look bad in everybody’s eyes. I can’t remember the last time your people did something right.”

Singal licked his lips. “Uh, sir, we killed the Fox only 2 months ago.” The Fox had been the previous Most Wanted, a dreaded terrorist with connections in every Middle East state, a man so dangerous that most Arab politicians had feared him.

The PM stared at him. “Your agents were supposed to bring the Fox in alive. Instead, they started a fire-fight in a Punjabi village that left 25 civilians dead.” His look became icy. “And unless I’m mistaken, you only managed to find the Fox thanks to input from the Americans.”

Singal looked down at the floor, his look saying it all.

The PM leaned back. “You need to make amends, Singal. You need to get our misfortunes to change, get the media back on our side, make our citizens restore their lost faith. Do that, Singal, and you wipe the slate clean. Your primary objective now is Sayyed Wassu.”

Singal felt his spirits sink at his leader’s words. Good God, Wassu was in Pakistan, probably a guest of the government and under protection. As far as Singal was concerned, Wassu might as well have been on the moon.

“If you can somehow get him back to India, alive, all will be forgiven. We can then let the past remain in the past.”

When Singal spoke, his voice was hoarse. “Sir, you are asking me to do the impossible…”

The PM held up his hand, shaking his head gently. “Nothing is impossible, Singal. It can be done. The question you need to ask is: are you the right man for this task?”

Singal left the office, shaken. The PM had never treated him so harshly in all his months as bureau chief. He must really be under a lot of pressure. And now he was squeezing Singal for quick results. And what kind of results? Nothing less than Wassu himself!

He was sweating by the time he reached his official car. Suddenly, he paused at the door. Wait a minute, he thought. Maybe there was an option he could exercise. It would involve a little-known agency of the government that was run by a very unorthodox law enforcement officer called Jacobs. It was unorthodox because while effective, the officer resorted to tactics that were frowned upon in higher circles, mainly deceit, double-cross and entrapment by unlawful means. But Singal was now a desperate man; a drowning man would grab for any straw.

He turned to his driver. “Get me back to Headquarters.”

###

After a report of the meeting with the PM, Singal went on to tell Jacobs what he wanted. “Sayyed Wassu. I don’t care how you do it, or what resources you need, as long as you get him back alive and in one piece, and you do it fast.” He paused. “Comments?”

Jacobs thought quickly. “I’ll need to bang heads with my team. I have an idea, but I need their input and intelligence.” A frown crossed Jacobs’ features. “Whatever resources we need, you say? As you know, my little department is poorly funded. We have lots of great minds, but now much cash to work with.”

Singal let out his breath. “No limits, Jacobs. Just bring me that damn terrorist.”

Sheila Jacobs nodded for the first time. “I’ll get my people on it right away.”

###

A full forty-two hours later, it was in all the papers: Sayyed Wassu, India’s most wanted criminal, had been nabbed by a joint team of crack Indian commandos and intelligence agents. Details were sketchy, but it appeared Sayyed had been at a mountainous village in Kashmir when the snatch occurred. And now, hours after being grilled by Indian intelligence operatives, Wassu had agreed to turn state’s evidence.

Initial news reports also noted that the government had decided to host a press conference in Mumbai, allowing the Indian media a glimpse and a chance to question the criminal who had frustrated Indian law enforcement for so many years.

###

The press had gathered like vultures at a massacre. In their scores, intermingled with an equal number of policemen toting machine guns, a vast crowd had assembled at the stadium where the conference was to be held. A table was set up on the stage, and a podium was installed behind a sheet of bulletproof glass.

When Wassu was brought into the limelight, surrounded by plainclothes operatives, a wave of excitement surged through the masses, and camera flashes plopped by the hundreds. A detective made an announcement, and then Wassu was led to the podium. Silence swept the stadium like a wind. Wassu’s head was lowered, then he looked up and spoke: “I have decided to renounce my life of- of-” He hesitated. “I wish to change my ways, and pay my debts for the wrongs I have done these past several years. And so I am giving myself up to the Indian government. In exchange for a limited sentence, I have promised to give them details of various persons and organisations in India and abroad that have, over the years, supported or financed criminal activities. I intend to give intimate details that will send a lot of very rich and powerful people to prison.” He paused. “And to show you all that I am serious about making amends for my past crimes, I will now tell you something that few people know: the terrorist that is known to you as the Fox is still alive.” A shocked gasp went up in the air. “It’s true: the Fox still lives…”

The bulletproof glass shielding his face shattered and a gunshot rang out in the silence. For a single instant, as time stood still, nobody moved. And then security officials flung themselves around Sayyed Wassu, and rushed him out of the stadium.

###

The phone-call woke Sheila Jacobs, and she looked at her bedside clock: it was 4.20 AM. She picked up the receiver. “Yes?”

“Jacobs.” It was director Singal. “I want you in my office right away.” He hung up.

Sheila looked at the clock again, sighed, and got out of bed.

###

Singal was sitting when she entered, and made no attempt to offer Jacobs a chair. Instead, he tapped a fax sheet on his desk. “This report from our Dubai office came in 20 minutes ago. The officer-on-watch took a look at it and woke me. Let me read it to you.” He picked up the page. “It says that at 2 A.M. IST, a private plane landed at Dubai airport. Guess who got off? It was The Fox, along with five bodyguards. They headed to the capital and booked into a five-star hotel.” He looked up. “Apparently, no one tried to stop him or make him turn around and leave Dubai. It looks like he’s not only alive and well, but still able to move about with impunity.” He looked at the fax sheet. “At the hotel, he sends a report to the main papers. He says that he was hiding in Libya since his ‘death’ two months ago, but now he’s come out because of recent reports of old friends who are suddenly in the news and trying to become something they are not. He says that these reports disturb him: in his eyes, all Arabs are brothers, and should protect and look after each other. He is not pleased to come out of solitude at such personal risk, but he has done so because he may have to put his house in order.”

Singal slammed the page down. “He’s sending a direct message to Wassu! He’s telling him that if he blabs to us, he’s going to go after him personally. This news will be out in all the newspapers and television channels by this morning. If Wassu hears of the threat, he’ll clam up and refuse to talk!” He shook his head. “Yesterday, the PM was shaking my hand after we grabbed Wassu. Today, I have to tell him that our worst nightmare the Fox is still alive, and that he’s threatening Wassu.”

Sheila sat. “Sir, there’s something you need to know. About 2 years ago, our department recruited a specials-effects man from Hollywood, an NRI. The stuff and techniques he brought with him was amazing. But what we were most interested in was the use of synthetic polymers that could be used for facial reconstruction, and micro-chips with built-in microphones. These chips could be programmed to parrot a known recorded voice, and then implanted into the prosthesis made of polymer.

“Over the years, the agency had accumulated hundreds of photos of Sayyed Wassu, and plenty of recordings of him from telephone conversations.”

Singal was suddenly very still. “What are you saying, Jacobs?”

She looked at him directly. “The Sayyed Wassu currently in our custody is not the real Wassu. He’s an impostor.”

###

The real Sayyed Wassu was asleep in his bed, somewhere in Pakistan, when someone began hammering on his bedroom doors. “Wassu! Wassu, you must wake up now!”

Wassu rose groggily, then, recognizing the voice, opened the door.

His trusted aide, Ali, rushed in holding a fax sheet. “Read this, Wassu!”

Wassu did, and his face turned white. “The Fox is alive! And now he’s threatening me!” Earlier reports that the Indians had captured him had first angered, then amused him, and he had read the reports, and watched the clips of the press conference with interest. He had been shocked at how good the impersonator was, but none of it had bothered him, for he could not see how it could possibly harm him. His opinion was that the Indians had cooked this scheme up to make themselves look good for the media after the Yemen fiasco. But now, this.

The Fox had emerged from hiding to ‘set his house in order’. He was ordering Wassu to shut up, failing which, the Fox would then conduct a vendetta against him. He knew how the Fox operated. If the Fox gave the order, none of Wassu’s relatives anywhere in the world would be safe. The Fox would methodically exterminate all traces of Wassu from this earth. All because of some stupid impostor the Indians were parading about in Mumbai.

Wassu looked at Ali. “I have to go to Dubai to meet the Fox. I have to convince him that I’m not really a prisoner.”

Ali looked startled. “You can’t go to Dubai! If the police realize you’re there, they might throw you in jail. You don’t have the kind of pull the Fox has. Why don’t you just phone him and explain.”

“Do you think he’d believe a voice over the phone after seeing the video of the Mumbai news conference? Of course not. I have to go there in person, and let him see me in the flesh. It’s the only way.” He pursed his lips. “Arrange a jet. I’ll have to sneak into Dubai under cover of darkness.”

###

It was still dark when Wassu and two bodyguards, dressed as Arab oilmen, got out of the lift at the Dubai hotel where the Fox was staying. They were all nervous. Wassu had been afraid he would be recognised at the airport, but so far, most of the officials had been sleepy and far from alert. He had to convince the Fox quickly, then leave before daybreak.

There were two guards in the hotel corridor, and they stopped Wassu’s group. Wassu took off his glasses and false beard. “It is I – Sayyed Wassu. I must talk to the Fox about a matter of the utmost urgency.” He was ushered into the hotel suite and body-searched by two other guards. His own men were made to remain outside. Wassu was told to wait, while the Fox was roused from bed.

He paced the room, unable to sit then turned at a sound.

“Wassu?” It was the Fox.

Wassu went to embrace him, but something in the other’s face made him hesitate.

“Is this a trick, Wassu? What have you done by coming here? Are Indian agents waiting outside to arrest me?” snapped the Fox.

Wassu shook his head. “My brother, none of that is true! I am a free agent! The man you saw on the news is an imposter! That is why I am here.” The Fox stared at him, his eyes burning deeply. “I was never a prisoner of the Indians! I have been in Pakistan all this time, I swear it!”

The Fox studied his face. “If what you say is true, then let us leave – right away – for Pakistan. There, I can ascertain the truth for myself, and I will be safe from the Indians.” He hailed his bodyguards. “Prepare my jet. We leave in five minutes. My brother, Wassu will come with me?” He stared at Wassu, eyes blazing a challenge.

Wassu nodded. He would be happy to leave Dubai. And in Pakistan, where he had many friends, he could convince the Fox of his loyalties.

The whole group, numbering fifteen in all, left the hotel with minimal fuss, and headed for the airport. Twelve minutes later, they were airborne in the Fox’s personal jet.

In his seat, Wassu heaved a sigh of relief as he saw the lights of Dubai fall behind. They were going home, he and the Fox. Everything would be alright now. He looked across the aisle at the Fox. It was a good thing he had rushed to Dubai to meet him, instead of waiting and deliberating in Pakistan. This way, things would work out for the best. Once they touched down on home soil-

The forward door opened and a middle-aged woman entered. She stopped a foot from Wassu, her face without emotion. Wassu stared at her, uneasy. What was a woman doing on the plane? He had not seen any in the Fox’s entourage from the hotel. Who was she?

As if she had read his mind, she said: “My name is Sheila Jacobs. I work for the Indian government.” He stared, unable at first to comprehend her words. “Because you were untouchable in Pakistan, we had to make you come out.” She held up something. “This is a polymer prosthesis of your face. It was worn by an Indian agent. But you already know this. What you don’t know is that in our bid to trap you, we made another facial prosthesis. A prosthesis of a man that we killed two months ago. Of the one man who could lure you unsuspectingly out of Pakistan.”

Wassu’s eyes widened and turned. And then, in absolute horror, Sayyed Wassu watched as the Fox peeled off his face.

__END__